


I Hope You Blink Before I Do

by ladyvivien



Category: Iron Lady (2011), Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: F/M, Older Woman/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Politics, probably going to hell for this one, seriously messed-up power dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyvivien/pseuds/ladyvivien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the history books look back they'll call him a traitor, an assassin. If they remember him at all. If he lasts out the week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hope You Blink Before I Do

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this shortly after seeing The Iron Lady, and never posted it outside of an anon meme because... well. Title from The Mountain Goats' No Children.

He is trailed by the press from Number 10 to Flood Street as the car makes its way through the London streets. Nervousness coils in his belly, but if he doesn't go then they'll call him a coward. He won the leadership fair and square, he reminds himself. She had to go, she was becoming a liability. But still the niggling doubt remains that he knifed his mentor in the back, that when the history books look back they'll call him a traitor, an assassin. If they remember him at all. If he lasts out the week. He walks up to the door on legs that feel like jelly, and rings the doorbell with what he hopes is the authority befitting a Prime Minister. It's the Crawford woman who opens the door, and inside he can hear Carol twittering and fussing in a manner that even he knows will put her mother's teeth on edge.

For a moment, he thinks she'll slam the door in his face, but he is admitted wordlessly and breathes a sigh of relief to be out of sight of the paparazzi. He reminds himself that Margaret can't hurt him now - that she has been defanged, that he's the one with the power. But when he walks into the living room, his heart skips a beat to see her sitting there, still regal and elegant, still as if she had the world at her feet. It's only everyone else that has changed.

Predictably, it's Denis who speaks first.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" he booms, and John finds himself taking a step back. Denis is all bark and no bite, whilst his wife is both, but Hell hath no fury like a deposed Prime Minister's husband scorned.

"You've got no right," he snarls, "walking in here like that. I don't know how you can look her in the eye...."

"Leave us." The voice is tired, her throat hoarse from crying, but her tone is as imperious as ever.

Denis looks from John to Margaret and then, as if deciding that John poses no real threat, nods obediently. "If you insist, sweetheart." _Sweetheart_. The endearment is odd, but John has never understood Denis' tenderness towards a wife who so obviously does not need it. Or so he’d thought.

The door closes, and they are left alone. He does manage to meet her eyes, after an awkward moment of letting his gaze settle anywhere else but on her.

"Come to gloat?" she asks tauntingly, a glimmer of malice in her red-rimmed eyes.

"Nothing of the sort," he stammers, although of course he has. "I just wanted to see how you were doing, Prime Minister."

The title slips out automatically, and it's a moment before either of them realise. He thinks he sees something die inside her, and he wonders if the bile rising in his throat is guilt or contempt.

"As you can see," she says coolly, "I am perfectly well. _Prime Minister_." The words feel like a slap, and for one moment he wishes that she would hit him. He can feel her fury crackling off her, and she's never known when to pull her punches. That's one of the reasons - one of the many, many reasons - why he is in Downing Street instead of her, rather than rotting away on the back benches in punishment for a failed coup. Her gimlet eyes lock onto his, and he wishes he'd never come. Better to be branded a coward than face this icy anger.

"I will never forget what you did," she hisses quietly. "Never."

Fear takes over his brain, the instinct for self-preservation kicking in as it so often does when Margaret is around. "You can have whatever you want," he babbles. "A seat in the Lords, any title you like."

A cold smile creeps across her face. He's not sure she has any other kind. Even with Cecil and Reagan, it never quite reached her eyes.

"Whatever I want." The words fall softly into the silence between them. "Whatever I want." She pats the sofa next to her, as if summoning a truculent pet, and he finds his legs obeying independently of him. "What I want, John," she purrs, her hand coming to rest just a little higher above his knee than is strictly proper, "is for you to make amends."

A flush of anger jolts through him. The bitch wants him to apologise? She overreached herself, thought she could run the whole damn country single-handed, and now she's been shown the error of her ways she wants _him_ to apologise?

"I can't do that," he says with a finality that surprises him. "I'm sorry it's come to this Prime Mi - _Margaret_ , but I'm not sorry its me and not you. You'd do exactly the same thing in my position. You did."

It's not quite the same thing - she didn't dethrone a sitting Prime Minister, although he doesn't doubt she has the brass balls for it. But that vaulting ambition is there, the way it is in him, in any Cabinet Minister worth his salt (which basically means anyone except Geoffrey Howe, who might as well change his name via deed poll to 'Poor Geoffrey').

"I don't want your snivelling apologies," she sneers. "I want you on your knees."

Oh.

Oh _God_

He doesn't have to do this. She has no real power over him anymore, there's nothing she can do to force him the way rumours say she's coerced some of the others. So maybe he does feel guilty after all, or maybe it's that lingering desire to please her (when he decided to put his name forward he'd hoped, in some twisted way, to impress her), because he finds himself sinking down in front of her, waiting for his next instructions.

"Lift up my skirt," she orders calmly. She might as well be asking him to pour the tea. He pushes the red material up - and what message was she sending with that, he wonders? Is it meant to symbolise blood, a warning, or a foreshadowing of the near future when Labour sweep to victory without her holding them at bay? - and groans audibly at the sigh of the lace-trimmed stocking tops and silk knickers the colour of gunmetal. Or iron. He licks his dry lips in anticipation as he gazes at the darkened damp fabric between her thighs. He wonders how long she’s been wet for, who she’s been wet for. If she’s been demanding this as a show of fealty from everyone who crosses her doorstep. He realises belatedly that he doesn’t actually like doing this, but he can hardly stop now. He presses a tentative kiss there, tasting her musk on his lips. It’s not entirely unpleasant. He’s rewarded with a little “Mmm” of approval.

“May…Can I…”

She nods wordlessly, watching him. _The eyes of Caligula_ , that’s what Mitterand had called them. He wonders if the randy old French bastard has ever seen her like this.

He pulls her knickers down and attempts to spread her legs before realising that he’s going to have to take them off completely. He fumbles a bit, but manages to tug them over the polished black court shoes and tosses them carelessly on the floor. He shoves her skirt up a little further, rougher than he means to in his haste, and eases her legs apart. He just looks at her for a moment, in a way he’s never bothered to with a woman before. He wants to get all this committed to memory.

“Get on with it, Prime Minister,” she says, a note of warning in her voice. And so he lowers his head and starts to lap clumsily at her wet folds. She tastes hot and strong. It’s heady. His tongue probes the opening of her cunt and she shifts, wriggling impatiently.

“Not there, you stupid boy,” she mutters, and he feels his cheeks blush against the creamy smoothness of her thighs. She reaches down and tangles her fingers in his hair, fingernails raking gently against his scalp as she positions his head where she wants it. His tongue flickers out over a swollen, sensitive nub of flesh, and she inhales sharply. He repeats the moment a couple of times before getting daring, circling it with his tongue and tracing patterns over it. Her breath has sped up and she’s circling her hips ever so slightly that he’s not even sure she realises that she’s doing it. He increases the pressure and she moans softly.

“Yesss,” she murmurs. She starts to rock against his mouth, hungry to increase the friction, and the noises she makes become more demanding, her fingers twisting ever more tightly in his hair. “Yes,” she gasps out in a harsh pant, “Like that. Lick me like that, Prime Minister.”

It should turn him on, to hear her call him that whilst he’s got his head buried between her legs, but somehow it makes his growing erection wilt slightly.

“Do you enjoy that?” she asks mockingly, tugging his hair a little. He daren’t stop to reply, just renews his vigour. “I think you do. Licking a woman’s cunt – _my_ cunt. Did you think about that, John, when you were languishing on the back benches? Did you imagine what you could do for me in exchange for moving up the ranks?”

He groans against her, because it’s true. It’s an open secret that half the House (at the very least) have been using the Prime Minister - _former_ Prime Minister, he corrects himself – as first-class wank fodder for over a decade.

“Did you ever consider coming to me and offering this in exchange?” Her words are broken up by sighs and gasps and the pulling of his mouth more firmly against her. “I bet you thought you’d avoided that. That I advanced you on your own merit.” The muscles in her thighs are tightening, and he can feel her cunt clenching against his tongue. “Well,” she moans, “you’re wrong. You traded yourself in just like everyone else, John. I just delayed the payment, that’s all.”

His rhythm falters as her words sink in, and apparently that’s all it takes to push her over the edge. She comes with a loud, sharp cry, pulsing against his mouth with a gush of wetness. He pulls back and wipes his mouth vigorously, a sense of revulsion creeping over him. He’s not sure if it’s for her or for him.

As he stands shakily – that position is murder on his knees – he realises with flooding sense of shame that he’s still hard. Margaret, slowly recovering from what he might be the most intense orgasm he’s ever witnessed, eyes the bulge and smirks. He hands her back her underwear and she stuffs it into her handbag with a casualness that shocks him (and makes him wonder what else she carries around in there).

Straightening herself up, she leans over the table and rings the bell. Carol has clearly been loitering in the hallway – he hopes to Christ she hasn’t heard anything – because she’s with them in seconds, giving him the evil eye and asking Mummy dearest if there’s anything she needs. Mercifully, it’s enough to cool his ardour, and from the malicious glint in her eye, he realises that Margaret had expected that. Which is rather cruel of her, if accurate. No wonder the poor girl is such a neurotic mess when even her own mother can’t stand her.

“Mr Major was just leaving, dear,” she says distantly, as if she hadn’t been coming against his mouth only moments ago. “Could you see him out?”

He nods awkwardly, half bowing at his former leader.

“Good day, Margaret,” he says, trying to recapture some of the ground he has lost so spectacularly.

She doesn’t respond and he follows Carol through the dimly lit hallway in silence. She pauses, with her hand on the doorbell, and looks at him searchingly for a moment.

“It’s a poisoned chalice, you know,” she says so quietly he can barely hear her over the muffled hubbub of the baying pack of journalists outside. “Mummy found that out. You will too, eventually.”

He offers a smile, stiff and formal. “Then I can only hope I rise to the challenge with even half the dignity that your mother has shown. After all,” he says, half to himself, “she taught me everything I know.”

“Yes,” Carol smiles politely. “That’s what they all say. Goodbye, Prime Minister.”

She opens the door and the light from a dozen photographers flashbulbs blinds him.


End file.
